


Winter Of Our Discontent

by centaury_squill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 02:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/centaury_squill/pseuds/centaury_squill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter was still a teenager when he entered Merlin's Memorial Library for the first time. Nearly fifteen years later, stressed by his work as Head Auror, he visits the library again. Can he discover the secret it contains, and save the man he loves?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Of Our Discontent

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Contains quotations from Shakespeare, John's Gospel, and WB Yeats.  
> 2\. Originally written for Snarry-a-thon13; many thanks to abigail89 for her inspiring prompt.  
> 3\. Thanks to G for the beta and for his suggestion of Richard the Third as the Shakespearean character most closely matching Snape.  
> 4\. Last, but never least, thanks to accioslash and torino10154 for another memorable fest.

**_London, August 1995_**  
Harry upended his money bag and shook it over the pool surrounding the Fountain of Magical Brethren. A shower of coins flashed brightly through the air, hit the water and sank slowly to the bottom: gold Galleons, silver Sickles, brass Knuts. His heart swelled with delight and relief. He wasn't going to be expelled from Hogwarts, after all.

"Great work, Harry," Mr Weasley said, clapping him on the shoulder. His broad grin mirrored Harry's own. "Of course they hadn't any case against you, really."

That was easy for him to say _now_ , Harry thought, remembering with a shudder the Wizengamot's stern faces, Percy's sanctimonious aloofness, Fudge's obvious eagerness to convict Harry at all costs.

"Yeah," he said. "Dumbledore did great."

Arthur Weasley must have noticed an unexpected flatness in Harry's tone; he looked at him enquiringly.

"Something wrong, Harry?"

"No, no," Harry said. "It's just..." his voice trailed off. Dumbledore had defended him brilliantly, forcing Fudge to back down, winning the Wizengamot's vote. It was the height of ingratitude to complain – but if only Dumbledore had spoken to Harry, looked at him even, there wouldn't be this faint uneasiness clouding his euphoria. 

Harry firmly pushed the thought to the back of his mind, and gave Mr Weasley a happy grin.

"Nah, nothing. I'm good," he said. "Are we going back now?"

"Do you think you can make your own way, Harry?" asked Mr Weasley. "Only I'm a bit behind, what with escorting you to the courtroom, and I really need to get to Bethnal Green as soon as possible, sort out this regurgitating toilet."

Harry took in the worried expression on Arthur Weasley's face and smiled reassuringly.

"No problem," he said, "I'll catch the tube to King's Cross and walk to Grimmauld Place from there."

The crease between Arthur Weasley's brows grew less pronounced.

"That's right, Harry. Go and tell the rest of them the good news. I'm sure Molly will be on tenterhooks to know how it went."

Mr Weasley gave him a quick pat on the shoulder, turned and trotted busily off towards the row of Floos, happy in the certainty that Harry would have no problem getting back to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

But Harry had no intention of returning straight to Grimmauld Place: he had other plans. That morning, as Mr Weasley had led Harry across London, he'd pointed out an imposing-looking building, which he identified as Merlin's Memorial Library. 

"The Merlin is Britain's premier Wizarding Library. But I expect your friend Hermione would be more interested in that than you," he'd said with a smile.

But Harry wasn't listening: his attention had been caught by the sight of a horribly familiar black-cloaked figure skulking up a gigantic flight of steps.

So now, as soon as Mr Weasley had safely disappeared in a flash of green Floo flames, Harry set off – not for Grimmauld Place, but back to Merlin's Memorial Library, with only one burning question occupying his mind.

What had Severus Snape, hated teacher and most dubious member of the Order of the Phoenix, who at this moment was supposed to be spying for the Order, been doing entering Britain's premier Wizarding library, in what could only be described as a furtive manner?

*

The Merlin was even more imposing close to than it had appeared at a distance. An immense staircase made of porphyry swept up to an elaborate portico, where tall marble pillars flanked a massive golden door. Squinting upwards, Harry could see the motto _libri liberum_ inlaid in mother-of-pearl across the lintel. Feeling about the size of an ant, Harry climbed the stairs; on reaching the top, he was relieved to see a small workaday oak door beside the enormous gold one. He reached for its handle. The door immediately swung open and Harry stepped inside.

He was standing on an elaborate mosaic set into the floor of the library's entrance hall. It appeared to show a woodland scene of some sort, but before Harry could examine it more closely, he was distracted by the sound of a voice asking courteously: "How may we help you, Mr Potter?" Glancing up from the mosaic, he saw a scholarly-looking centaur pacing across the hall towards him, hooves ringing on the marble floor.

As the centaur got closer, the scholarly impression faded, especially when he removed a pair of half-moon spectacles – rather like Dumbledore's – and stowed them in a pouch slung across his muscular shoulder. Startlingly blue eyes gazed into Harry's as he rephrased his question.

"Welcome to Merlin's Memorial Library, Mr Potter. May I enquire the purpose of your visit to us?"

"I – uh –" stuttered Harry. Somehow, he didn't think the centaur would find _to spy on Professor Snape_ an adequate reason for him to be there. Playing for time, he asked, "How did you know who I am?"

The centaur smiled. "Everybody knows the famous Harry Potter," he replied, "but I have more reason than most to be aware of you; you have met a distant cousin of mine, in the Forbidden Forest of Hogwarts."

Harry looked at him closely, taking in the astonishing blue eyes, the white-blond hair. "Firenze?" he guessed. "You're related to Firenze?"

The centaur nodded and reached down, offering his hand. "I am indeed. My name is Livorno."

"Er, good to meet you," Harry said, shaking his hand. He added, "Firenze saved my life, you know."

Livorno nodded solemnly. "And incurred the wrath of his herd in so doing. Well, if my cousin saw fit to assist you, I can do no less. Come, I will show you the library; you may find what you seek within."

And he gestured for Harry to follow him across the vast expanse of marble.

*

Half an hour later, Harry's head was spinning. Livorno had led him on a whirlwind tour of the major sections of the library. He'd seen books on Wizarding history and Wizard/Muggle relations, Herbals, Books of Hours, Muggle poetry, classics. In some of the rooms readers pored over massive tomes; in none of them did he see any sign of Professor Snape. Conscious that time was passing and Mr Weasley might return to Grimmauld Place at any moment, only to find that Harry had disobeyed his instructions, he finally stopped Livorno before they could enter yet another room full of books.

"Um," he said. "Is there anything here like the Restricted Section in the Hogwarts library? Have you got books on the Dark Arts?"

The centaur's mild expression turned thunderous. "And why would Harry Potter wish to visit such a section?"

As Harry was still groping for an answer, a low, sneering voice came from behind him.

"Because he thinks he will find me there, of course."

Harry felt himself go red. There was a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach; he slowly turned, hoping against hope not to see what in fact he did see: Severus Snape, smiling at him unpleasantly.

Livorno looked from one to the other, a faint frown drawing his blond eyebrows together. He seemed about to speak, but before he could say anything Snape cut in, saying sharply, "I beg your pardon, Livorno, but I must get this..." he regarded Harry for a moment, his lip curling; the word _brat_ hung in the air, "... this young man back to his minders as a matter of urgency."

The centaur nodded gravely. Harry was surprised to see a strange gleam in his brilliantly blue eyes. Surely not amusement?

"You will be returning, Severus?" he asked.

"Yes, of course. And I must thank you for all the help you have given me with my... research."

Livorno smiled at him. "You are very welcome here at any time, Severus, you know that. And all the help I can give you, I will." He turned to Harry. "As for you, Mr Potter, I do not think the time is yet ripe for your researches here. But be assured, when that time comes, the resources of the Merlin will be at your disposal."

Awed at the centaur's tone, which had almost the gravitas of a prophecy, Harry gulped and stammered, "Th-thank you, sir."

The centaur clapped his hands together. "Away with you now." This time there was no mistaking the gleam of amusement in his eyes. "I am sure you will be... safe... in Professor Snape's hands."

*

The Underground journey to King's Cross was crowded and uncomfortable, the tube train packed with Muggles. Harry and Snape had to stand, squeezed in between a businessman in a pinstriped suit and a teenager with a shaved head and baggy T-shirt, nodding and twitching to the beat of the headphones over his ears. The train slid to a halt at a station, the doors opened and even more Muggles pushed their way inside. Snape muttered something under his breath and shifted his position. Harry felt him squeeze up against his back: presumably, between the skinhead and himself, Harry was the lesser of two evils.

The doors closed, the train moved away from the station. Harry stood balancing himself as it swayed and rattled, picking up speed. An unexpected wave of euphoria swept over him. He _hadn't_ been found guilty by the Wizengamot this morning, he _would_ be returning to Hogwarts. He grinned happily. Even packed like a sardine with sweaty, smelly Muggles – and Snape – life felt good. 

Suddenly, Harry sensed something hard pressing against his bum. He glanced over his shoulder, preparing to make an "is that your wand in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me" crack, but encountered such a glare that he hastily turned back.

It _must_ be Snape's wand. Mustn't it?

*

Any hopes Harry might have had that Snape would simply dump him on the doorstep of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place and go back to his own obscure ploys died the moment they entered the grimy little square and saw Arthur Weasley approaching from the opposite direction.

Seeing them at the same moment, Mr Weasley hurried towards them, exclaiming, "Harry! Where have you been?"

Before Harry could say anything, Snape cut in, saying in an obnoxious drawl, "Mr Potter has been wandering around Muggle London without escort or protection – until, that is, I became aware of the situation. _Not_ what Dumbledore had in mind when he asked you to accompany him to his Ministry hearing, I feel." 

Arthur Weasley gave a harried glance around for possible Muggles and said, "I think we'd better take this inside, Severus."

In the ensuing fracas (Mrs Weasley shouting at her husband for putting Harry at risk, Sirius and Severus at wand point, the noisy congratulations of the twins and Ron as soon as they realised he'd been cleared) Harry forgot all about his visit to the Merlin.

He wasn't to remember it again for nearly fifteen years.

*

****  
_Hogwarts, May 1998_

Harry sat quietly at the library table in the gathering dusk. A green-shaded lamp cast a pool of light onto the book in front of him, but he wasn't reading it. He stared abstractedly across the shadowy library to the high, roll-top desk where Irma Pince sat surveying her domain, alert and ready to deal with any outbreaks of whispering, book defacement, or other unmentionable crimes.

He'd come to the Hogwarts library as a last resort, a refuge from the hell outside – the rows of bodies in the Great Hall, the wailing, cursing survivors, the arguments which erupted without warning into the middle of a mourning silence. And everywhere, everyone wanting a piece of him: to execrate, praise or blame him – Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived Yet Again. Attempting to avoid all their demands on him, he'd tried the Gryffindor boys' dormitory (invaded by a grieving Ron, a sullen Seamus); the Great Lake (ambushed by a posse of grudge-bearing Slytherins); the Shrieking Shack (haunted by the memory of Professor Snape's last moments). Finally, in desperation, he'd come to the library, and – amazingly – it had worked.

Madam Pince's strict regime paid no heed to wars, Dark Lords, death or destruction: if you were in her kingdom, you respected her rules, foremost among which was _silence in the library at all times_. Anyone who broke them was given short shrift, be they bereaved parents, ex Death Eaters, or members of Dumbledore's Army. At last, Harry had the peace and quiet he craved. He sat in his pool of green-shaded lamplight, as the world outside the library windows turned ever darker, and a few, faint stars began to appear. 

Harry came to himself with a start: the sky outside was black, blazing with stars, and Madam Pince stood on the other side of his table, an odd expression on her face.

"Mr Potter!" she said, and Harry realised she must have been trying to attract his attention for some time. When she realised that he'd heard her at last, she continued, "The library is about to close for the night, Mr Potter. I'm afraid you must leave."

"I'm sorry," Harry said, hurriedly scrambling to his feet, "I was just –"

Madam Pince's stern features softened slightly. "I understand," she said. "Severus Snape was just the same, God rest him. He sought peace of mind in a library."

Her words triggered a faint memory, but try as he might, Harry couldn't quite pin it down. "This library?" he asked, knowing already what her answer would be.

Madam Pince shook her head. "A library with far more resources than Hogwarts," she said. A pensive look came over her face. Half under her breath, she said, "I do hope he found what he was looking for."

Then she fixed Harry with a steely glare and said sharply, "But enough procrastinating, young man, I need to shut the library for the night. Be off with you, this minute!"

*

****  
_London, February 2010_

Head down, Harry trudged glumly through St James's Park in the whirling snow. He was on his way from Downing Street. His role as Head of the Auror Department had become increasingly political of late, and Harry hated politics. As he reached the edge of the park the snowflakes stopped falling for a moment and he turned to look back over the thick white blanket which covered pathways and grass alike, the snowy mounds which hid bushes and benches. Once the sight would have thrilled him. Now, he just gave a weary sigh. He no longer even had the fun of building snowmen to amuse his young children since Ginny had buggered off, taking James and Al with her.

Harry shook his head irritably. That wound was too recent, too raw, to contemplate for long. He returned to his other problem – politics. Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had worked in the office of a previous Muggle Prime Minister, had warned him that Muggle politicians were even more devious than those in the Ministry of Magic. Harry had found that hard to believe at first, but now, after three months of weekly meetings with the current inhabitant of Number Ten, he was inclined to think that this PM was even worse than the one Kingsley had known. From hints he'd dropped today, Harry had the horrible suspicion that the Muggle would like to use the Aurors as a private, unpaid, unaccountable police force of his own.

"Not gonna happen," Harry muttered grimly to himself as he resumed his walk towards the Ministry of Magic. "Not on my watch."

When Harry left the Ministry that evening he decided, once again, to walk. His job nowadays left him increasingly desk bound, and by the end of the day his whole body was simmering with the need for physical activity. He hesitated for a moment on the snowy pavement at the end of the road: should he go back to the empty house where every scribble on the wallpaper, every discarded broken toy, spoke eloquently to him of his lost children? Or should he, as he'd been half-wondering for the past week, go instead to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place? 

Put like that, the question answered itself. Harry gave a little nod. He'd never had the heart to sell Number Twelve, though he rarely visited it: just two or three times a year, normally, to check that Kreacher and Winky were keeping the old house clean and tidy. Pausing only to send his Patronus with a message for Kreacher to expect him, he set off for Grimmauld Place. 

It was a long time since he'd made the journey there from the Ministry. His mind filled with work problems, Harry hardly noticed the route he was taking until he reached a street he seemed to remember from years before, a street with a tall structure at the far end. Harry stopped in his tracks, staring at the ghostly white building glimmering through the dusk. Its name popped into his head without any effort on his part.

Merlin's Memorial Library.

*

Once again, Harry stood contemplating the woodland mosaic in the Merlin's entrance hall; once again, he heard hooves tapping on marble as a centaur paced forward to greet him. Looking up, he was unsurprised to see Livorno, little changed by the fifteen years which had passed since their last meeting, the details of which were now flooding back into his mind.

The centaur bowed to him gravely. "Welcome, Mr Potter."

Harry stared back at him, a little crease between his brows. "How come I've only just remembered this place?" he asked abruptly. "Did you Obliviate me last time I was here?"

But that couldn't be it, he thought suddenly; he now remembered the crowded tube journey back to King's Cross, Snape pressed close up behind him. He hadn't remembered _that_ before, either. His frown deepened as he thought back to that day. They'd arrived at Grimmauld Place, Snape had sneered at Arthur Weasley, they'd gone inside – and all hell had broken loose. Snape and Sirius had even had their wands out, threatening each other...

_Ah._

"Snape Obliviated me," Harry said flatly, looking at Livorno with narrowed eyes. "Did you know that?" 

"Ah, knowledge," the centaur mused, "the wing wherewith we fly to heaven."

Harry, who had experience of talking to centaurs, ignored this and continued his line of thought. "A spell like that always dies with the caster," he said slowly, puzzling things out from among images of the past flashing through his brain. "I know that from personal experience." (A body-bind lifting, an old man tumbling like a rag doll from a tower). "But Snape has been dead for nearly twelve years." (A snake striking, blood everywhere, intensity slowly fading from black, black eyes.) "Does that mean he's alive after all?" (Ginny glaring at him, accusing him of obsession: "Why can't we call him Arthur, after my father – _Albus Severus_ , for fuck's sake?")

He came back from his reverie to see Livorno regarding him with a knowing look. _Snape might still be alive._ Did the centaur sense the leap of happiness in Harry's chest at that thought?

"Although," he continued, happiness dimming, "if the spell has lifted _now_ – might that mean he has just died?"

"It might," Livorno said solemnly. "It might not."

Harry glared at him.

"Have you considered," the centaur said gently, "that it might mean Professor Snape has lifted the spell himself?"

"Then where is he?" Harry asked. "Do you know? Is he here, in this library?"

Livorno turned, gesturing to a closed door at the far side of the entrance hall. "Come with me, that you may learn."

"Learn what?" Harry demanded. "The answers to my questions?"

"No," Livorno replied. "You must learn what questions you need to ask."

*

Harry stared at the book open on the table in front of him. The underlinings and scribblings in a familiar handwriting reminded him with a pang of a long-lost copy – the Half-blood Prince's copy – of _Advanced Potion Making_. But this was no potions textbook.

He'd been puzzled at first when the centaur had shown him the books Snape had been researching all those years ago: Nicholas Culpeper's _Complete Herbal_ he could understand, and the treatise on medieval alchemy, but what could Snape possibly have wanted with _The Works of Shakespeare_? But then Livorno had explained that Will Shakespeare – who lived before the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy – was well known in the Wizarding society of the day, some said a wizard (or at least, a Squib) himself. 

Harry leafed through a few pages, alert for Snape's handwriting, and came upon a short, underlined passage near the beginning of _Macbeth_ :

There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face:  
He was a gentleman on whom I built an absolute trust.

In the margin beside it, Snape had scribbled _Occlumency?_

Harry grinned, continued leafing through the book. Every so often an annotation in Snape's handwriting would catch his eye: the ingredients for a potion alongside Ophelia's "there's rosemary, that's for remembrance" speech in _Hamlet_ ; a scathing comment about Prospero at the end of _The Tempest_ ; what looked like Arithmancy calculations in the margins of _King Richard III_. 

But it was part of a sonnet which Snape had underlined with black, slashing strokes which held Harry's attention the longest:

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears  
Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within  
Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears  
Still losing when I saw myself to win!

Harry sighed deeply, feeling the utmost sympathy for the man who'd seen himself in these lines, all those years ago. At last he closed the book, sat thinking for a moment, then went in search of Livorno.

The centaur was in another reading room opening off the entrance hall, putting books back in their places on the shelves. He turned as Harry came in and raised his pale blond eyebrows.

"Did you find what you sought, Mr Potter?"

"I'm not sure," Harry said honestly. "I think I'll call it a day for now. Maybe I could come back tomorrow?"

"You will always be welcome here," the centaur said gravely, "whenever you need to return."

He ushered Harry through the entrance hall and out of the oak door. They stood side by side for a moment on the top of the steps.

"Venus is bright, tonight," Livorno murmured, before turning and disappearing back inside the library.

Harry lingered for a little longer before setting off for the nearest Underground station, staring up into the overcast, light-polluted London night sky. He could see no stars or planets whatsoever.

*

Grimmauld Place was as dark and forbidding as Harry remembered it. He stood in the entrance hall, calling for Kreacher. As he waited for the house-elf to respond, he reflected wryly that it was just as well he had little to do with Ron and Hermione these days: Hermione was as staunch a supporter of house-elf rights as she'd ever been, and never tired of nagging Harry to free Kreacher.

As for Ron, he'd _said_ he had no problem with Harry becoming his boss, when Harry had been promoted to Head Auror three years ago. It hadn't taken him long to leave the Ministry and go back to working with George in the family joke shop, though. Perhaps it was just as well, given that Ginny...

Harry tore his thoughts away from this unprofitable path and yelled for Kreacher again. This time, there was a sudden pop! and Kreacher appeared in front of him, still proudly wearing Regulus' fake Horcrux locket on his narrow chest, all these years later. 

"Master is back at last," he sniffed. "Will Master be bringing his wife and the noisy brats to plague Kreacher again?"

Harry took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. There was no point getting into an argument with Kreacher.

"No," he said shortly. "It's just me. Is there anything to eat?"

The house-elf sniffed again. "Maybe. Will Master be staying?"

"Yeah," Harry said, "for a while, anyway. And no, before you ask, my family won't be joining me."

Kreacher rubbed his hands together. "Kreacher will cook Master a nice hot stew, and a treacle tart; Kreacher knows Master likes treacle tart."

Harry stared at him. He seemed to have said the right thing, but he had no idea why. Maybe the house-elf was lonely. But surely – 

"Where's Winky?" he asked. "I thought the two of you were sharing the caretaking duties here."

The house-elf turned away, muttering about Winky being needed elsewhere. Harry decided to let it go for the moment, not wanting to dampen Kreacher's sudden enthusiasm for cooking.

Later that evening, as Harry sat in the welcome warmth of the kitchen range, replete with the most satisfying meal he'd had in ages, he returned to the topic.

"So... Winky isn't here with you? Where is she, at Hogwarts?" 

Kreacher clattered the crockery together unnecessarily loudly, pretending not to hear. 

Harry sighed. "Look, if there's something wrong – if there's anything I can do –"

Kreacher turned to look at him, clean plate in one hand, a soggy tea towel draped over his other arm.

"– apart from doing the washing up, I mean," Harry added hurriedly.

"Kreacher would not dream of asking Master to take on household tasks." The house-elf sounded affronted. "But..."

"But?"

"There is a Boggart," Kreacher said with a shudder, and Harry wondered what form the Boggart took when it appeared to him. "If Master could get rid of it, then Kreacher will be able to clean the room."

"Sure," Harry said, getting to his feet and groping around for his wand. "Which room's it in?"

When Kreacher didn't immediately reply, Harry eyed him in surprise. The house-elf looked oddly furtive, but then he often did. At last he put down the plate, wiped his hands on the sopping tea towel, and said:

"In the library, Master."

*

Harry stood in the unfamiliar, book-lined room, a little crease between his brows. He hadn't even realised this room existed; he certainly didn't remember it from the days he'd spent at Grimmauld Place with Sirius and the Order, and later with Ron and Hermione. And yet, there was _something_ nagging at his brain, whispering on the edge of consciousness – something which told him that, in spite of all appearances, he had been here before.

He quickly scanned the shelves. Most of the books looked distinctly sinister, what you'd expect in a library accumulated by the Dark-Arts-loving Black family. But, alone on a high desk by the window, lay a tome which Harry thought he recognised. Without thought for the Boggart, he strode across the room and picked it up.

Yes, he'd been right. It was the twin of the book which he'd been studying only a few hours ago in Merlin's Memorial Library: _The Works of Shakespeare_. A well-thumbed copy, it fell open in his hands, and Harry found himself once more staring at the familiar handwriting of the Half-blood Prince, criss-crossing the margins of _King Richard III_.

The room suddenly felt as if its temperature had dropped by about ten degrees. Harry turned slowly away from the desk. There, lying in the middle of the floor, was the body of Severus Snape, a trickle of blood running down the side of his neck and dripping onto the dusty carpet. 

It took Harry a long moment to realise what was happening. He drew his wand, trying and failing to find anything remotely humorous in the situation. No vulture-crowned hat would help him here.

" _Riddikulus!_ "

It was no good. The dead eyes opened and stared, pits of blackness, into his own; the blood flowed sluggishly onto the floor. Harry gulped, raised his wand again. He was an Auror, for fuck's sake! He could do this. 

But he couldn't.

Admitting defeat, Harry grabbed _The Works of Shakespeare_ and all but ran out of the room. Slamming the library door behind him, he leant against it, trying to catch his breath. A memory came to him: Mrs Weasley, here in this house, confronting a Boggart which changed successively into the dead bodies of the people she loved the most. And she had failed then, as he had failed now. Because of love.

And with that thought, a lock seemed to click open in Harry's brain, and he remembered when he had been in the Grimmauld Place library before.

*

****  
_London, August 1997_

Kreacher stared down at the locket which his Master had given him. He must help Master Harry all he could, as he had helped Master Regulus before him.

"Kreacher knows where the Blacks keep their hidden books," he said in a harsh bullfrog croak. His old Mistress would not like him revealing these secrets, but things had changed now.

"Hidden books?"

"Dark Arts books," Kreacher explained. "Master Regulus told Kreacher to look in them, to find a way to destroy the Dark Lord's locket, but Kreacher failed." His watery, bloodshot old eyes full of misery, he began to bang his head against the wall.

Harry immediately grabbed hold of him. "Stop that, Kreacher!" And when the old house-elf stood passively in his master's grasp, he added, "Show me these books. Maybe I can find a way to destroy the Horcrux."

*

At first Harry thought the room was unoccupied, that all the faint sounds he could hear came from the shelves full of the evil books, cursing, hissing, whispering to each other. Then he walked round a tall, black-lacquered cabinet and saw a dark figure sitting at a high desk, quill pen poised over an open volume as he looked up and caught sight of Harry.

"Mr Potter," he said, on an exasperated sigh. "I might have known."

"SNAPE?" Harry could hardly believe it. How dare this _murderer_ come swanning into his, Harry's, house as if he owned it, sit comfortably at a library desk as if he belonged there, look at Harry as if _he_ were the intruder? Enraged, he reached for his wand, only to have it fly out of his hand at a wordless spell from Snape.

Undaunted, Harry rushed forward, hands outstretched. He _needed_ to close them around the evil bastard's throat, to squeeze the life out of him, to hear him beg for mercy as Dumbledore had begged.

Eyes narrowed, Snape watched him approach, only stopping him at the very last moment with a wordless body-bind. 

"Professor Dumbledore was not begging for mercy," he said softly. "He was begging me to kill him, reminding me of our agreement."

Harry stood frozen in place, only his eyes alive and hating. He saw Snape look down at the book in front of him, scribble something in the margin, frown. He saw him glance up again with a measuring look.

 _I hate you,_ Harry thought, as hard as he could. _I'd like to kill you. Legilimise THAT, you murdering bastard._

Snape smirked. "Oh, I know," he said. "But fortunately for me, you can't." His expression hardened. "You really must work on your Occlumency skills, Potter, if you wish to become... competent... enough to defeat the Dark Lord."

 _Why would you want me to?_ Harry thought back, a tinge of confusion entering his thoughts. _You're his – tool, aren't you?_

"Things aren't always what they appear," Snape said coolly, returning to his book. He turned a page and scribbled another note, but didn't seem to find what he was looking for. 

Harry watched as Snape leafed through the book, his face growing increasingly frustrated. Then he suddenly stopped, and stared from the page to Harry's face.

"I wonder..." he mused. Turning back to the book he scribbled furiously, seemingly lost in calculations. At last he looked up at Harry again, an unpleasant smile on his face. "If you survive, Potter, and come here again, you are to be Ratcliff. Remember that." He made one more notation in the book, his eyes still fixed on Harry. "And now –"

As Harry glared at him uncomprehendingly, Snape reached into his robes and pulled out his wand.

"Oblivi–"

*

****  
_London, February 2010_

"Ratcliff?" Livorno repeated, breaking off from his study of Harry's copy of _The Works of Shakespeare_ , and regarding him over the tops of his half-rimmed glasses. "A minor character in _Richard the Third_. According to Shakespeare he was responsible, at Richard's instigation, for murdering several people."

He chuckled at Harry's indignant look. "You must remember that Will Shakespeare was a Tudor apologist. The play is by no means historically accurate."

"But why would Snape say I'm to be him?" Harry said. "And be him, how?"

"That it what we need to discover," Livorno said. He frowned over the book, slowly turning its pages. "Odd..."

"What is it?" Harry asked eagerly.

Livorno continued to study the battered old volume for a moment, then placed a bookmark carefully between its pages before snapping it shut.

"Follow me."

He led Harry into the small reading room where the Merlin's copy of _The Works of Shakespeare_ still lay as Harry had left it the previous evening. Livorno opened the book and turned the pages until he found the passage he was looking for, then compared it with the bookmarked page of Harry's copy.

"Ah," he said with satisfaction. "As I thought."

He swivelled both books round to face Harry. 

"Look at these. What do you see? 

Harry bent over and studied the two books. "They're different!" He looked up at Livorno, his eyes shining. "Snape must have done something to change the play, somehow." He considered the books again. "And look, in your copy he's written these Arithmancy calculations on this page, but in my copy there's no sign of them. Is that how he did it?"

"I wonder what else has been changed," the centaur mused.

"We can easily find that out," Harry said confidently, snatching up a blank piece of parchment from a stack on a nearby shelf. He drew his wand, tapped each book in turn, then stroked the tip of his wand across the parchment.

" _Differencio!_ "

Immediately writing appeared on the parchment, in interleaved lines of red and gold.

"Ah!" Livorno said, with instant understanding. He picked up the parchment and peered at it through his half-rimmed glasses. "Yes, I see." He turned back to the Merlin _Shakespeare_ and ran his finger down a page. "Yes, it would seem that these Arithmancy calculations do not merely foretell the future, but change it also, at least in so far as the reality instantiated by this play is concerned." He continued to study the parchment. 

Harry began to pace restlessly backwards and forwards across the length of the small reading room.

"This would appear to be a salient example," the centaur said suddenly. He cleared his throat and declaimed:

"Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my fortune!  
Why strew'st thou sugar on that bottled spider  
Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about?  
Fool, fool! thou whet'st a knife to kill thyself.  
The day will come that thou shalt wish for me  
To help thee curse this pois'nous bunch-back'd toad." 

The 'bottled spider' image reminded Harry of a certain DADA lesson. He shuddered.

"It is Queen Margaret speaking to Queen Elizabeth," Livorno explained. "The 'bottled spider', the 'pois'nous bunch-back'd toad', is Richard himself. He is consistently portrayed by Shakespeare as a scheming villain, a murderer, of repulsive appearance." Livorno pushed his spectacles higher up his nose. "But in _your_ copy, most of this vilification is absent. For example, Queen Margaret makes no such speech."

Harry scrubbed his hand across his head. "I don't understand. Why would Snape care about Richard the Third's character?" 

"Why indeed," replied Livorno. "Perhaps he felt empathy for a man traduced." 

"And," Harry went on, "there are more of his Arithmancy calculations in the margins of _my_ copy. Different ones. Does that mean he was trying to make more changes?"

"Yes," Livorno said slowly, "and if that is the case, and he succeeded in his attempt, then somewhere there must exist yet a third copy, in which these changes have become part of the play. And, maybe, more calculations, to effect yet further change. But where could such a volume be?"

Harry smiled. "I think I may know that," he said.

*

****  
_Hogwarts, February 2010_

"I have been waiting nearly twelve years for you to come back," Madam Pince told Harry, her tone faintly accusing.

They, together with Professor Vector, were sitting in tartan-covered armchairs in Professor McGonagall's study. Professor McGonagall sat behind her desk, looking from one to the other. She frowned slightly at Madam Pince's comment.

"Really, Irma, you make it sound as though Harry is returning a long overdue library book."

Harry grinned at her tone. "I do have a book with me – but it isn't from Hogwarts library." He got up from his chair, produced the Grimmauld Place copy of _The Works of Shakespeare_ and laid it on the desk. Opening it at a page covered in Snape's writing, he continued, "Professor Snape seems to have tried to do – _something_ , we're not sure what – with the aid of Arithmancy." He nodded respectfully towards Professor Vector. "That's why I asked if you could be present, professor."

The Arithmancy professor's eyes brightened with interest. "May I see?"

"Certainly," Harry replied, picking the book up and handing it to her.

As he did so, Madam Pince caught sight of the scribbles in the margin and drew in her breath with a hiss. Harry expected a diatribe about defacing books, but to his great surprise she said, her voice shaking, "Poor Severus. He thought to escape to safety in the play, but Lord V-voldemort was too sudden for him."

"You know about this?" asked Harry.

"A little," she replied. "He asked my permission to hide his copy of Shakespeare in my library. But it is still there." She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. "He never had chance to use it. That evil snake –"

"Wait!" interrupted Professor McGonagall. "Which Shakespeare play are we talking about?"

" _Richard the Third_ ," Harry and Madam Pince said together.

"But Severus had a pocket edition of _Richard the Third_!" exclaimed Professor McGonagall. "He carried it with him everywhere."

Harry stared at her, hardly daring to hope. "So you're saying he may have escaped after all?"

Minerva McGonagall looked at him kindly. "It's possible, Harry. After all, he _did_ disappear from the Shrieking Shack."

But Harry's face had fallen. "Even if he escaped into the play, I still don't know how to go in after him. All I know is, I'm supposed to be Ratcliff."

Professor Vector looked up from her examination of Snape's calculations. "I may be able to help you there, Harry. I think I can see what he was trying to do, although this seems to be an earlier attempt. If the play in the library has identical annotations to the one he had with him, I should be able to work out what you will need to do to save him."

*

The four of them stood in Madam Pince's office in the corner of Hogwarts library. Professor McGonagall looked anxiously at Harry.

"Are you sure you know what to do?"

Harry nodded. Professor Vector's instructions had been admirably clear.

"I take the book in my hand –" he picked up Snape's copy of _The Works of Shakespeare_ from Madam Pince's desk, "– and I repeat Richard the Third's motto."

"Correct," confirmed Professor Vector, with a brisk nod, "You should then find yourself at Bosworth field on the eve of battle. Go to the king's tent at midnight. You remember what to say to him?"

Harry nodded, took a deep breath. "Here goes," he said, and gripped the book more tightly. 

" _Loyalty binds me!_ "

Immediately he had the sensation of being lifted up above the desk, while huge, ghostly pages flicked over in front of him, faster and faster, eventually becoming a blur before fading to black.

*

****  
_Bosworth Field, August 1485_

Harry stood breathing in the cool night air. He could feel grass underfoot, hear the occasional snort of a horse. Dull flickers from low-burning camp fires gave the only light. In the distance he could hear an owl hooting, low and eerie.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, a patient shadow in the dark, but at last he heard the sound of a cockerel crowing from a nearby hamlet. Harry picked his way past the campfires, heading for the largest, most elaborate tent. As he reached it, the cock crowed again. He took a deep breath and ducked inside.

"My lord!"

A prone figure stirred, propped itself up on its elbow.

" 'Zounds, who's there?"

"Ratcliff, my lord; 'tis I," said Harry, frowning in an effort to remember what he had to do. 

"The early village cock  
Hath twice done salutation to the morn;  
Your friends are up, and buckle on their armour."

The campfire outside suddenly burned brighter; in its light Harry saw the face he'd once thought never to see again, except in dreams. But Snape didn't appear to recognise him.

"O Ratcliff! I have dream'd a fearful dream."

Harry stepped forward into the light of the fire, fixed Snape's eyes with his own.

"It's time to go home, Severus," he said gently, stretching out his hands. 

At last, he saw recognition in the black eyes, spoke the words Professor Vector had taught him.

" _The truth will set you free!_ "

And grasped Severus Snape's hands.

There was a sudden roaring wind, the familiar flickering pages, and next moment Harry and Severus found themselves staring into the astonished eyes of Minerva McGonagall.

*

****  
_London, March 2010_

Harry climbed the now-familiar flight of steps, entered through the oak door. Nodding to Livorno, he headed for the small reading room where he knew he would find Severus.

"I've done it," he said, without preamble. "I'm no longer an Auror."

Severus looked up. "Congratulations," he said drily. "And what do you intend to do now?"

Harry looked back at him, all his heart in his eyes. "I think that rather depends on what _you_ intend, Severus."

"Well," Severus said, consideringly, "I _could_ try more Arithmancy experiments. This sounds very restful, for example."

He pushed a book of poems across the table towards Harry, who read aloud:

"I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,  
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;  
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,  
And live alone in the bee loud glade."

Harry broke off, looked hard at Severus. "Live _alone_ in the bee loud glade?" he said, with a tinge of indignation.

Severus smirked. "With my Arithmancy spell I could amend that," he murmured. "What do you suggest? Live with... an annoying brat in the bee loud glade?" His voice dropped a tone. "Or maybe, with a... _lover_?"

Harry went red. "Tempting," he said, "very tempting. But I couldn't leave my kids. Ginny's only just agreed to let them visit me. And I can't see her bringing them on visits to the –" he glanced down at the poem again, "– lake isle of Innisfree, can you? The bees would probably sting them, anyway."

Severus laughed. 

"I've an alternative suggestion," Harry said.

Severus raised an eyebrow.

"Professor McGonagall has offered us a home at Hogwarts for as long as we want it. And the Easter holidays are starting soon, so we wouldn't be bothered by any students for the next couple of weeks." He looked pleadingly at Severus. "What do you think? We could, er, get to know each other better. As adults."

There was a long silence. Harry felt himself going red again. 

At last, Severus slowly inclined his head. "That would be acceptable." He took in Harry's delighted expression, and smirked a little. "After all, there's always the Hogwarts library to offer me a means of escape..."

\- the end -


End file.
